Closed but not locked

Well, she took up a new hobby. Having dilly-dallied her whole life, she naturally became an expert and turned impulsive lingering into a mindful practice. Every night, she lies in her bed with her eyes closed. The duvet stretches over her body, tucked in over her head and under her feet, leaving room for freedom. In this cosy cocoon, her imagination thrives. The plots have been changing over the years. They grew deeper; they range from the innocent to the intensely disturbing, but she wouldn't be ashamed to tell any of them now. Except for a couple of nights each month that coincide with her ovulation, when the duvet sticks to her mouth rhythmically with each inhale, for a little while.

Some people live in one home all their lives. I wonder what it can give you. Watching yourself age, noticing that the ceilings seem lower, the rooms smaller, that food has to be cooked. You suddenly realise it takes time and effort to maintain that crisp cleanliness that once seemed so effortless. Walls age as well, but skin wears faster. That might be a challenge at some point. But it can also be bliss.

She was like that. Life carried her away a few times, but the home was always with her. Waiting and welcoming, keeping the generational code.

* * *

Anyway, it is practice time. Warm and cosy under the cover, she is in the bathroom. Her bathroom hasn't been renovated since she was born. Nothing has changed, it has only worn, so travelling back in time is easy: she just imagines the colours brighter. She is about 8 tonight. That is easy to imagine too. In summer, if she wasn't wearing knee-high socks, grass gave her ankles a rash, and only pouring lukewarm water over swelling, blushing skin could bring relief. At least that was the only solution she could think of. Being a big girl, she was allowed to take a shower by herself, with the door closed but not locked. In the bathtub, her ankles came first. What a pleasure it was to watch the water take the itching away and into the dark hole rimmed with shining copper.

Soon her focus shifts to the square mirror hanging on the door, reflecting her upper body. The space is small, and before long the room is soaked in damp fog. The mirror is within arm's reach, so she wipes it with a familiar gesture to see her face in a cloud of shiny brown curls. And big brown eyes, such a contrast with her pale skin, the white tiles and the fog. A small shelf on the left is the next step. Her father's safety razor rests on the matching metal stand next to a soft, thick, hairy brush in a shaving bowl and his cologne; a sweet, unreachable admiration for her father makes her feel like a queen each time. Such a drama; she is trapped here in the steamy bathroom with no one to behold but herself.

Next to the cologne, her granny's lipstick stands upright in a simple white plastic case. Hurry up! You've been here quite a while already! She opens the case, twists the bullet up to its full length, and a long red shaft with a flat top traces her lips. She puts it back on the shelf, and oh God! What a beauty there is in the mirror! Oh dear, what a pity I can't share it with anyone, but trust me, I will never forget you…

Her granny's voice from the outside world: Are you done, sweetie? She has almost no time; her heart pounds as she desperately tries to wipe the red off. The thrill reaches its climax when the door opens, and granny, with a huge Chinese towel with two pink roses and hieroglyphs on it, is ready to hug the queen and to deliver her to the bed. Crisp, immaculate sheets feel a bit suffocating but so safe…

… she has never forgotten, and that red will always stay with her as a paragon of redness, beauty and freedom during rare steamy nights.